


Drown My Sorrows in Beers or Tears

by AvecPardon



Series: Parlourverse Canon Side-Stories [4]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, drunken arguments, fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction (blog)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvecPardon/pseuds/AvecPardon
Summary: After an especially horrific night at Freddy’s, Jeremy is desperate for an escape from the memory.





	Drown My Sorrows in Beers or Tears

**6:00 AM**

**__** _(Yaaaaaay!)_

 

Jeremy held his head in his hands, breathing hard as he stared at the tile. His eye twitched. His clothes were tattered, his shirt torn open and one sleeve missing.

_The cackling of the Marionette, spindly hands tearing at his uniform; he could still feel the cloth fingers running over his skin, see the wide smile looming over him as he was dragged to the Prize Corner, kicking and screaming…._

_“Jeremy!”_ Mike’s voice barely nudged him from the flashback, and Jeremy jerked away with a scream at the feel of a hand touching his shoulder.

A moment passed, and then Jeremy managed to clamp down on everything that had happened to him just long enough to register that his father-figure coworker was crouched near him, arms raised and concern on his face. “What the hell was **that** for?” Mike asked, eyebrow raised. Jeremy swallowed and hugged himself, both to cover up and hold himself together. If Mike noticed him shivering as he carefully prodded at his shoulders and arms to check for injury, then he was considerate enough to not talk about it. “You look like shit hit the fan and came at your face.” Mike gave him a close look, carefully threading his fingers through Jeremy’s hair to brush back. “Want me to take you home? My shift doesn’t start for another hour. I just make rounds to be sure the fuckboys are in place.”

He whimpered, nodding, and hefted himself up with Mike’s help. As they walked out, he could swear he heard the echoes of cackling following him.

…

The walk home was one part humiliating, one part comforting. Jeremy leaned into Mike’s side, shivering and trying to hide from sight. In the full light of morning, the hand-shaped bruises were easier to see. If not for Jeremy tugging at his arm and whimpering wordlessly, he was sure that Mike would have turned right around and raged at the animatronics, maybe even tased them.

Home sounded good, so good. Especially since home now meant the apartment where Doll and Mike lived, a guest room made up for him since he attempted to move out of his aunt’s place and live on his own. That hadn’t gone well; he was robbed on the way to his intended apartment. Mike fumed and kicked over tables for an hour until he calmed and immediately dragged him to his place. There was a small fuss with Doll about it, but Jeremy was given a room for the night so he could arrange for a return to his aunt and uncle.

Doll snuck into the room and talked him out of it when Mike was out shopping; apparently, being dragged in like a stray cat meant Mike wanted him to stay put.

So he did.

_He was dragged across the tile, screaming, crying, digging fingernails into the floor. "Şuc͞h͟ a̷ **warmth͏** ̷fo̢r̶ ͟l̶i͡fe̡. ҉ **Th͞e͏y** ne͡ed͢ ̷m͜ore; ͡y̴o͏u ͏h͡av͘e ͞ **s͡o̷** m̕ưçh҉ **l̛if̕e**. Gi͟ve t̶he͜m ̧ **m̕ore͞**!“_

Jeremy gagged, staggering away suddenly to retch into the gutter while Mike hurried over to stand watch over him.

"It’s okay, Jere. C'mon. Almost there.”

He didn’t want to keep remembering. Flashes of horror staining wonderful memories. He wanted to forget the terror, the feel of living fabric on skin.

…

Mike pushed the door open and led him to the kitchen to sit at the table. “Hang on, gotta call Fritz and Doll; let ‘em know what happened,” he said and ruffled his hair. Jeremy nodded mutely, watched him leave the room, and turned his eyes towards the refrigerator.

There was always a good stock of beer in there for the day guard. On rough days, Jeremy could hear several bottles be opened over the course of a couple hours. Doll disapproved, but she wasn’t always around to stop him. And Jeremy would be stuck cleaning up after putting a randomly emotive, drunk Mike to bed.

The beer helped him forget, he once said.

Before he really understood what he was doing, too desperate to lose those memories, Jeremy had an armful of the dark bottles out and opened. The first drink made him cough, eyes watering and stomach roiling. The taste was horrible and it stank, filling his nose with a sour, rancid smell. Cheap beer; of course. Mike was still on a budget.

He sucked the liquid down anyway, pushing through the awful flavor and craving the bliss of oblivion, to wash away the hands on his arms, the drain of life, pulled from his body and passed around to the ghost children all clamoring for more, more, more.

_“Gi͏ve it͞ **a͝ll** , ͟yo͢u h͘ave͝ **so** **mųch** ,͟ ͝sh͢a͜r͞e̕ ̴it҉,̶ sha͏re͜ ͏th̛at li̶fe, **not ͜fair̨** w̛ȩ los̨t ours͜, giv͘e͠ us you͞r̢s, it̨ ͞t̢astes̨ ̧l͝i̵k͟e **h͢op̨e̡** ,̴ i͢t͏'̨s͞ so ̷w͜a͠rm, ̴ **so ̷w͜a͡rm**..̢..̛"̡_

Two bottles down. His head swam, ears buzzing, heat flushing through him that wasn’t because of the Little One, the Fifth One, the one that possessed Mike and sometimes came to him when his nights were rough.

She had come that time, too. She felt the surge of life and raced to him, desperate to save him, spare him.

_"͝Not̵ ̵fa͜ir,̡ sh̢e͡ ͠ha̕s t̢wo͏, g̸i͢v̵e h̴im to u̧s,͢ ͏w͞e'l̷l͠ l̛eav̛e̸ M͘ike alo͠ne̴, yea̷h we̷ ͜ **promi̛s̶e͜** , j̷u̴s͏t͘ ̶g̛i҉v͏e͟ **h҉im** t̸o ͞u͞s,̢ **he'̕s͡ ̛so̷ wa̶rm͞**.͞.͟.͟."͝_

Another bottle. The world was tilting and it was hard to focus and his stomach wanted to rebel so much but he couldn’t _stop._ Could still hear giggles and cackles, could **still** feel the ache in his bones from bowing back against the floor, screaming in pain, in terror, in _agony._

Could still remember wanting so, **so** badly to be found by one of the others, dragged away and shoved into a suit. Death by having his head crushed in sounded so much more desirable to this.

One more, just one more. The world was dimming and maybe everything will be lost to the black and….

"WHAT THE **FUCK** ARE YOU **DOING**?!”

Jeremy rolled his head and eyes -nearly making himself sick in the process- and stared at Mike standing in the doorway, anger and disbelief warring on his face. What was **his** problem? He raised the bottle to his lips for another round of guzzling.

“Stop!” Mike snapped, marching forward and yanking the bottle out of his hand, spilling it onto both of them, “The fuck are you _thinking_ , drinking this shit?! You’re under age! And you can’t **handle** that much! Did you drink my whole six pack? What the **fuck,** Jeremy?!”

Anger. What did **he** know? It wasn’t **his** life the brats were begging for, not the same way they want from Mike. Old man had it simple, had it clean, just shove him in a suit, end of game. Final punch out, the **end**. It was _Jeremy_ that had to deal with the bullshit **he** couldn’t, a dozen animatronics out for blood because they can’t fucking tell two human beings apart and a puppet playing priest, trying to suck the life out of his body to pass around like candy.

“Jeremy! What the **hell** are you talking about?! Stop _drinking_ that shit! Give me the bottle!”

Hah, he **did** get another bottle. And he managed to stand up from his chair and back away with it, despite the world wanting to flip flop on him and Mike stalking forward to grab at it. Fuck the old man; he didn’t **want** to remember, wanted the beautiful black of nothingness.

“ _Give me the bottle!_ What do you **mean** , sucking out your life?! Jeremy! **Talk** to me!”

“I don’t **have** to! You should already **know**! **You** used to be the night watch! And then you chickened out and left **me** to pick up **your** slack!” Jeremy snapped, backing against the kitchen wall and clutching the bottle, hot tears running down his face, hot like the fever, the alcohol burning through his gut and making him feel sick and putrid and venomous.

“Jeremy!” Mike’s face was red, red with anger that didn’t know where to be directed, his expression torn between exploding in rage and wanting to know, wanting to understand. “I can’t **do** anything if you don’t _explain_ shit!”

“They wanted **you** , old man!” Jeremy gestured wildly with the last beer bottle before catching himself and taking a gulp, jerking away from another grab attempt. “They wanted **you** but they got **me** and it’s _your_ _fault_!”

The beer wasn’t helping; he could still feel it, feel it even now, fingers wrapped around his neck, holding him in place, bent back, another hand directing the flow of his life outward, a thin and lanky figure humming a melody as the ghost children danced and laughed in the glowing light.

“I’m so **warm** to them, Mike.” He laughed and sobbed, hand pulling at his own hair. “I’m **warm** and **full** of life. And you’re just old and bitter! Why don’t we trade? **I’ll** be the angry pisshead and **you** can be the one they torture for the fuck of it!” He threw the bottle with a scream, not caring if it hit person or property as it shattered against the floor and spilled glass and liquid all over.

He screamed again when his wrist was grabbed, lashing out and howling, rage and hurt and horror pouring out as Mike pulled him in and held on tight. No words. The man said nothing, just hugged him tight and refused to budge even as Jeremy beat his free hand down on his arm and chest, everywhere he could reach. Screaming till he was sobbing, pounding until he was just holding on, legs giving out until he was on the floor, he was nearly enveloped in limbs as Mike switched their positions, sat against the wall and just held him close, growling under his breath.

“…gonna _murder_ the assholes… the _fuck_ did they **do** … ripping them apart piece by piece….”

And Jeremy kept sobbing, anger turning to guilt and shame. He’d lashed out at the one person who did nothing but help him as best he could and how’d he pay him _back_? By getting drunk in his house and raging at him, hitting him, nearly beaning him with a beer bottle.

“I can’t do _anything_!” he cried, “I’m sorry, I’m **sorry**! I’m _horrible_!”

“Shut up. Don’t you _ever_ say shit like that about yourself. I **told** you, you’re the **best** I’ve seen, so much better than an asshole like me,” Mike said sharply, reaching out with one leg to hook onto a bucket and bring it closer to them. He pressed a hand to Jeremy’s head and tucked it under his chin. “Just… _settle_.” Jeremy went still, sniffling as he closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the older man’s heartbeat.

One, two. One, two.

_'Severo. Admin. Goto. Command.’_

And like that tension began bleeding away.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m **so** sorry. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry._ ”

“You keep saying 'sorry’, I’m gonna slap you, son.” But he rubbed slow circles against his back instead and Jeremy wanted to cry all over again.

Warm, he was _so_ warm. **This** was the warmth of life. Marionette had it all wrong.

“’M sorry… for drinking all your beer,” Jeremy mumbled once he could speak again.

“Sorry isn’t gonna pay for another six pack. You owe me, Jere.”

He laughed -god, he was _pathetic_ , but he was loved so it all balanced out- and then his stomach rose against him and Jeremy was pushing himself away from Mike, grabbing the bucket and vomiting everything he’d drunk into it.

Tasted just as bad going out as it did going down.

“It’s okay, let it out.” So strange to hear Mike’s voice be soft and soothing. That was Doll’s thing but he wasn’t half-bad at it either. “You’re okay now. You’re home. Rest up, I’ll deal with the asswipes.”

Jeremy nodded slowly, head pounding as he sniffled and rubbed tears away.

“We’re going to have to buy another mop bucket, too,” Mike added and Jeremy laughed before heaving again.

But the memories of that horror were fading against the warmth and love he felt in the kitchen, and that was worth _everything_ to him.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted November 29, 2014
> 
> This takes place further down the timeline from the main storyline events, as does the story of Jeremy moving out of his aunt and uncle's home.


End file.
